Page 27 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“I trust you no longer think me likely to do that.”
Tilting her head to one side, Clara mused. “No, not likely, although I do think you ruthless enough if crossed.”
Reaching forward, Woolwich moved one of her curls which was hanging over her eyebrow. He found himself eye level with Clara, properly able to consider her rounded cheeks, the indent where, were she smiling, her dimple would appear, the auburn colour of her lashes and eyebrows, the intelligence that blazed out from every element of her. It was, he realised, as if he were staring into the sun. He simply had not appreciated it before now.
Getting to his feet, he moved to a seat farther along on the sofa. He was not quite ready or prepared to cross away from her and sit an appropriate distance away.
“I looked at them, Isabel was so brave, but I was scared—I didn’t know what to do, and then the doctor and… here”—she touched her heart, pulling at the material of the gown—“I didn’t think it could be worth it, the pain of labour and the hours it took, and then I saw Nick’s face, and my sister with their little girl. They wanted her so much. She is so dear, so beloved, so perfect.” Clara’s fierce eyes blazed into his, eyes that matched the sea, all swirling together and wet with feminine strength and zeal. “And I didn’t know what to do or where to look.” She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t think I know what to make of such overwhelming love. It is like seeing God made manifest.”
Throwing all caution and propriety away, Clara lifted her feet off the floor. It was then that Woolwich noticed they were bare and her toes were visible. With a small sigh, she pivoted and tucked her feet beneath her before sitting farther back into the sofa, huddled as if she were a girl preparing to take a nap.
“I should leave you.”
“No.” Clara’s hand shot out, and she stopped him from taking more than a step away from her. Woolwich froze and allowed her to guide him back into the seat. Now that he was closer, she leant against him and murmured. “I am suddenly so tired.”
With a soft, gentle touch, Woolwich stroked his hand lightly down her back, the movement soothing as Clara rested her head once more at the point close to his heart. She let out a little noise of contentment. Her breath all the while stirring against the top of his shirt. This was what they had been doing earlier, embracing, holding on to one another when everyone had suddenly descended on them—breaking them apart. Previously it could have been dismissed as an innocent, spur-of-the-moment action. This was different. No one would be likely to disturb them here, and it could never be considered innocuous. At least not from his perspective.
The heat of her body resting against his chest, nestled in his arms, fired all his dreams to life, ones which Woolwich had told himself not to remember, to never consider them, for his own sanity. He wanted her with an intensity that was painful.
One of her hands held on to his jacket, keeping him latched to her as if she needed him too. Wanted to cling to him because of who he was, not just because she was in need.
“Jasper.” Her voice was low, more of a whisper, as she said his name for the first time. “I am so sorry for what you lost.” Her gaze focused on his face, sympathy shining from her eyes. “I should have said that to you before, but I… well I am saying it now.”
“I don’t want your apologies,” Woolwich said. He wanted, no, needed her to say his name again, to whisper, to gasp, or better, to cry it out as he ravished her. With as much care as he could, he loosened her fingers from his person. Then he leant forward kissing the top of Clara’s forehead. “You should rest.” He said as he moved to leave the sofa, but the look on her face stopped him. “What is it?”
“I am tired. Bone tired. But I’m also so close to tears. It feels as if there is every type of emotion inside me, and they are all desperate to escape. Does that make any sense?”
Woolwich smiled across at her. “It does.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“You know it’s not proper that I’m here.”
“None of our interactions have been proper,” Clara said. Her hand held on to his, their fingers interlacing as she studied his face.
“I should go.”
“But you aren’t.”
“I don’t think I can offer you—” Whatever he had been about to say, the excuse or reason perhaps, was lost when Clara closed the distance between them and kissed him.
CHAPTER14
It wasn’t their conversation, or what she had experienced for the last five hours with her sister, nor the handsome sternness of Woolwich that made him so appealing. No, it was the unmistakable kindness he had demonstrated with her. Perhaps she should have shown some reservations—she was dressed in a hastily thrown-on gown, her hair was loose around her shoulders, not to mention Clara was fairly certain there was blood on her. A more unappealing sight she could not have presented to him, and yet Woolwich had been nothing but considerate.
That was Clara’s motivation in kissing him—that sweet kindness she saw, which was finally peeking out from the hard exterior he presented to the world.
His face was so close to her, enough for her to see the flecks of dark blue in his slate-coloured eyes, a few strands of grey in his blond hair, peppered in and noticeable now that he was so near. There was an undeniably appealing aspect to him, a uniquely Jasper-ian… She speculated on what to call it. An aspect of goodness which he hid, but which, nonetheless she had found and treasured.
She pressed her lips passionately against the thin line of his mouth. Clara expected him to gently but firmly push her away, to list and remind her of all the reasons why this was a mistake. It was an error of seismic proportions. But when Woolwich’s hands came up to her shoulders, he tightened his grip on the material of her dress, and then when his mouth parted, he let out a groan and pulled her more tightly against his chest and onto his lap. One of his hands moved up to hold her head, angling it for better access as his tongue slipped in between her parted lips. Butterflies or winged creatures fluttered beneath Clara’s skin, plunging her entire being into the realm of golden light, a universe built entirely on sense, touch, and desire. Kissing him was as good as a new book or the discovery of an unknown author.
Woolwich’s other hand had shifted from her shoulder and was slowly palming its way across from her collarbone to the front of her dress. Those clever fingers pried buttons loose until his fingertips slipped inside and made contact with her skin. Clara could not imagine how it would feel when his large hand finally encircled her breast, but she wanted it, her body willed as she leant forward into his searching hand. Heat was running beneath her flesh, featherlight at first, until it came to throb between her legs. That need, the tumbling, ratcheting winged creatures, were alive under her skin, and if he didn’t touch her breast right then and there, she would never forgive him. Breaking free of his tempting mouth, Clara muttered, “Please.”
There was something so forbidding in his eyes as Woolwich peered down at her, but now this sternness simply added to her own growing lust for him.
“Do you even know what you’re asking me? I doubt any of the books you’ve read would be so informative.”
Unable to entirely let go of him, Clara wrapped herself more securely around him and then asked, “Does your knowledge of the act make you any happier in this moment?”
